Puzzles
by deschanel10
Summary: To Plutarch Heavensbee, puzzles were more then just a riddle to be solved.  Puzzles were essentially life.  And life was just a gigantic puzzle. But some things are just not meant to be solved.
1. Puzzle 1: The Jigsaw Puzzle

Note: This first 'chapter' is quite short. It is more of an introduction.

_Plutarch and friends belong to Suzanne Collins._

**Puzzles**

Puzzle #1: The Jigsaw Puzzle

From the very first day he ever received his first puzzle, Plutarch Heavensbee was in absolute love.

To Plutarch, a puzzle was more than just an enigma to be decoded. As he carefully unfolded the wrapping paper of his birthday present and saw the beaming jigsaw puzzle box, he saw an escape from the depression his mother was experiencing. He finished this simple jigsaw puzzle in a few seconds.

A puzzle was reliable. Plutarch could rely on a simple jigsaw puzzle to always have an answer. There was one answer, one explanation. Plutarch never had to fear the unknown with puzzles. Puzzles could always be solved. And this was why Plutarch loved puzzles.

Plutarch began to believe life was just a large puzzle meant to be decoded. Surely life could be solved. And surely he could solve the source as well as a cure for his mother's depression. He was certain he could decode this riddle, just as he could solve every puzzle handed to him. He was genius. And geniuses could solve anything. He was sure of it.

And once he put the pieces together, Plutarch knew that his mother would be fixed. After he solved this puzzle, he and his mother would be a happy family. They would be just like all the other families in the Capitol, and he would never feel scared again.

Life was a puzzle, and Plutarch was going to solve it.

He loved puzzles. Mostly, he loved the feeling he got when he finished them. Because every puzzle solved was proof that life could be cracked. If he could crack this code, his mother would be fine.

And Plutarch couldn't wait until his mother would get better.

* * *

After ten years of solving puzzles and decoding the most difficult codes of his time, Plutarch arrived home to see his mother's body dangling from the ceiling.


	2. Puzzle 2: Competition

Note: I haven't updated for a month. I sincerely apologize for not updating in forever. I haven't updated my other fanfiction, Cats, either. I just don't feel like it. (which is quite selfish, if I say so myself)

Sorry if this chapter is confusing. I am one of those people who ramble on and on from one point, and then realize they have rambled on to a point so far off from the origin. Basically, I cannot write analytical essays for my life.

**Puzzles**

Puzzle #2: Competition

This was what he wanted.

Every day, Plutarch happily and systematically woke up, got dressed, and headed to work. He saw himself as the luckiest guy in the world. Who wouldn't? He had one of the most envied jobs in the Capitol: a gamemaker.

The first year after he graduated from the best school in the Capitol, he could not find a job. Contrary to what people thought, Plutarch failed miserably in school. He wasn't the valedictorian. He wasn't even in the top 100 students. By a slim mark, Plutarch did not end up as the worst student in his graduating class. Perhaps it was his inflating ego that caused him not to care about school. Besides, school is stupid. Plutarch had much better things to do. Homework was replaced by nonsensical enigmas. Paying attention in class was replaced by the drawing of intricate and brilliant sketches of a labyrinth. Plutarch could not have given a damn about what the teacher had to say.

If school was based on tests only, Plutarch would have most certainly been at the top of his class. Unfortunately, Plutarch did not say a word in class. He was too busy decoding the mini puzzles living inside his head. Besides, if Plutarch did talk, the teacher would have wanted to shut him up anyway after a couple words. Plutarch was socially awkward. He was antisocial. In fact, his best friend was inanimate. In his eyes, codes were much more entertaining than people.

And that was why Plutarch never found a job his first year after luckily graduating from school. His prospective bosses most certainly would have hired him to solve difficult problems, but Plutarch was just too painfully awkward during the interviews. His mumbling was incomprehensible. So Plutarch practiced hours at presenting himself in a sufficient manner, so people would not dash away every time he spoke. In result, Plutarch enthusiastically spoke large and sophisticated words. This, perhaps, was even worse than before. Before, Plutarch could possibly pass as a mad genius who was not understandable. Now, Plutarch was a dork who would never fit into the glittery and shiny society of the Capitol. Plutarch was doomed.

He was doomed, until a certain broadcast on TV caught his glasses-framed eyes. Apparently, President Snow was making room for new gamemakers to create arenas and whatnot worthy of the Quarter Quell. Plutarch was immediately excited. At last had he found a job suited for his life. A lifetime of creating puzzles! A lifetime of bamboozling less intelligent people! Plutarch had found his job.

Naturally, President Snow had tweaked the truth. Auditions for new gamemakers were not really for new gamemakers. The lucky "chosen ones" were lucky interns. Interns meaning: suckers who had to cater whatever the veteran gamemakers wanted. Of course the gamemakers justified this by saying the interns were gaining precious experience. The interns would argue all they were gaining were traumatic experiences of old, fat, and genetically altered humans drunkenly singing drinking songs off tune.

Nevertheless, Plutarch was excited. The next year, he would be promoted. He could at last show the drunk fools how an arena should look. The Quarter Quell arena was stupid. Who cared if everything was poisonous? Plutarch wanted creative ideas with ingenious mechanisms.

At last Plutarch was promoted from flimsy intern to dazzling gamemaker. However, Plutarch was a bit disappointed. The gamemakers he had admired when he was younger were- well, fat and drunk. The alcohol most definitely diluted their brilliant brains. If the Capitol was quite enough, Plutarch was certain the brains would also be singing drinking songs, while submerged in an accumulation of fine wine.

The highlight of Plutarch's day was when all the gamemakers joined at one large table, and they all brainstormed for an hour. Everything was quiet, except for an occasional burp from a gamemaker who just ate a roasted pig. Plutarch could peacefully think of elaborate mazes and wondrous inventions. Then, the gamemakers shared their ideas until the Head Gamemaker chose an idea suitable enough for President Snow to see. Plutarch loved sharing his ideas. He loved letting supposedely just-as-brilliant people hear his ideas for arenas. And Plutarch also loved listening to other ideas, because the ideas were puzzles. Plutarch was able to find little details and faults that the gamemakers missed. And so this was his dream job. He could surround his life with puzzles and codes by making as well as solving them.

To Plutarch, the Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, was quite enjoyable. He cracked an occasional joke that was not at all funny. He smiled sometimes when a surgically altered gamemaker with blue hair attacking his or her head farts. But truthfully, Seneca Crane was a party-pooper. He was an uptight wedgie who could care less about feelings or emotions. Seneca Crane was a selfish man who boastingly enjoyed seeing inferior kids from the districts get what they deserve. But Plutarch admired Seneca, so Plutarch found the bright strokes of a dark canvas.

Seneca Crane almost always denied every single idea his fellow gamemakers suggested. Apparently, his ideas were the absolute best. Like a true pushover, Plutarch agreed. Well, a small fragment of sanity in the back of his head thought he was better than Seneca, but that fragment was on timeout. Plutarch could not feel just a tad disappointed when Seneca arrogantly put down all of Plutarch's ideas. Plutarch's ideas were quite novel. Even his drunk colleagues knew Plutarch was a bright, fresh gamemaker. And maybe that's why Seneca denied all of Plutarch's ideas. Plutarch was a threat.

But Plutarch did not seem like a threat. Plutarch was the newbie who blurted out random facts with an overly-excited tone. Plutarch was the lonely loser who all the gamemakers made fun of. Plutarch was the naïve Hunger Games enthusiast who drew arenas for fun. Plutarch was the mommy's boy who still thought girls had dangerous bacteria that should not be associated with his bacteria.

But Seneca thought otherwise.

But it was natural for Seneca to see a gullible dork as a threat, because all bright minds have a single dim weakness: their logic is logically incorrect.


	3. Puzzle 3: The End

**Puzzles**

Puzzle #3: The End of the Puzzle

Plutarch sighed.

"The puzzle is at last almost complete," he airily whispered.

In a few minutes, the Quarter Quell arena of the 75th Hunger Games would be destroyed with a zap of a lightning bolt.

Plutarch Heavensbee was a bit disappointed. He anticipated this moment to be much more exciting. Perhaps more exhilarating. This moment, of course, would make history. Plutarch Heavensbee was finally leaving his mark. He was about to achieve the impossible.

But for some odd reason, Plutarch didn't feel anything. Naturally, there was the tingling feeling that his stomach was empty, but besides that, Plutarch did not feel a sliver of thrill.

He knew he should be feeling something. He had worked his butt off for the past twenty years. Plutarch planned, organized, initiated. He had created an underground machine ready to smash the Capitol into smithereens.

Perhaps Plutarch wasn't feeling anything because this was never his dream. Plutarch's initial dream was to spend all his life on codes and riddles. Then, he realized all he wanted was happiness. It was a quite cheesy dream, but it was genuine. He wanted to feel the happiness his mother never felt. And when Plutarch became a gamemaker, he thought he had found that happiness. This job was his Cinderella shoe. It fit him perfectly. But he never experienced the "happily ever after" that the fairytales boasted.

Plutarch sighed again. He was on a sighing roll. "Maybe it's because I'm not a girl," Plutarch nonsensically referred back to why he never got his ride into the sunset.

And then last year, he was promoted to Head Gamemaker. Not only because all the other gamemakers were terrified to end up like Seneca Crane, but because it was intentional for Plutarch to be in the position to control the Quarter Quell.

This was Plutarch's dream when he was a chubby toddler, but now it was a burden. The power that came with the job was wonderful and quenched every man's thirst, but it also made him weaker. Every single action he took had consequences. The wrong button might result in execution, or a little mistake could destroy an important part of the rebellion.

"I hate my job," Plutarch admitted. It was quite surprising at how much he hated his job. He didn't really hate the gore and inhumane ritual of sending in kids to kill each other. It wasn't the disgusting feeling after forcing wine down his throat to blend in with fellow gamemakers that made him want to be a chubby warm cat instead of a human. Plutarch hated the job because it was forced on him. The actions most loved are the ones made by personal choice and reason.

At this moment, Plutarch had to focus again. The event that would occur in just instants was going to affect all of humanity. This one single second would set off a chain of electrical sparks that would eventually put Panem on fire. And the very first spark was the unfortunately difficult Katniss Everdeen.

Plutarch restrained himself from sighing. It wasn't his fault Everdeen never stayed on plan. She was most certainly a poor planner. And she was just so unpredictable. Kind of like a forest fire. Katniss Everdeen was the obnoxious toddler all adults can't help but buy a leash for.

"Speaking of Katniss…" Plutarch stared at the vast monitors in front of him. These screens were his windows into the arena.

Plutarch proudly huffed. The arena was his masterpiece. It was his Frankenstein monster. Of course he was supposed to keep Katniss Everdeen and company alive, but he couldn't help adding in all the exciting devices he invented. His favorite was the blood rain. Seeing Beetee, Wiress, Blight, and Johanna running, mouths wide open for "rain", was priceless. Priceless, of course, until Blight rammed headfirst into the force field and was killed with a zap.

Anyway, Plutarch zoomed in on the tree again. The lightning was about to hit in just a couple of seconds…

"Holy Fibonacci!" Plutarch cried. The arena was a mess. Well, it was already a physical mess with crazy monkeys and giant snapper insects, but the whole elaborate plan was in chaos. The wire of Beetee's electrical current device had been cut. Enoboria was chasing Finnick, Peeta, and Johanna with her terrifying teeth. Beetee was unconscious, and a seemingly pregnant Katniss Everdeen was about to electrocute herself by sticking a conductive metal knife into an electrical force field. Add in the million watts of energy from the lightning bolt about to zap into the force field, and Katniss was surely about to be fried Mockingjay.

_Somewhere in District 12, a cat named Buttercup was licking his lips at the thought of fried bird._

Plutarch was on his toes. He should have been nervous because his Mockingjay might die in two seconds, but he was also anxious for selfish reasons. If the force field somehow did not get destroyed by this fault-proof plan, then Plutarch would be captured, killed, and his dummy body would be hung by a bold tribute during evaluations in future games. Plutarch did not want to be another Seneca Crane. He wanted to be the man who changed a nation's fate. He wanted to be the one who created the brilliant plan to take down a powerful, corrupt government. And the fact that he would face long sessions of torture before a painful death also played a part in his anxiousness.

"Calm down, Plutarch," Plutarch said, while taking deep breaths he learned from daily yoga lessons.

Plutarch expertly raised one leg while positioning his arms into the right tree position. The yoga lesson paid for by the Capitol's Bureau of Finance in order to help gamemakers lose weight actually helped Plutarch to do something. These lessons helped him balance himself even though he had an unusually large tummy…

_Zap!_

The lightning bolt struck the tree at exactly twelve, and the large burst of light, ashes, and energy signaled the beginning of a killing machine that would destroy more than just the Capitol.

* * *

Clarification: I viewed Plutarch Heavensbee as one of the only people in the Capitol that wanted to take down the government. However, I always felt like no matter the sick feelings he got from seeing children kill each other, Plutarch still did not understand why the Games were so wrong. He knew it was right to destroy the current society, he just did not have the same strong emotions against the Games like the districts did. Almost no one in the Capitol will be able to understand why the Games are so terrible, since they never grew up frightened. The citizens of the Capitol never experienced it.

If the ending seems rushed, sorry. There isn't a lot of Plutarch fans, so there is no reason for me to write a Plutarch fan fiction anymore. Thanks for the readers, story alerters, and most of all: the reviewers. Every review makes me feel happy inside.

So just remember: a review a day keeps a writing block away…

Anyway, if you like cats or fuzzy things, check out my other fan fiction: Cats

Thanks again, everybody

deschanel10


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